Chapter XVIII The Ordeal by Fire
Grettir tells his Story—Preparing for the Ordeal—The Procession—Attacked by the Mob—The King Intervenes—Wicked or Unlucky
One day, as King Olaf sat in audience in his great hall, Grettir strode in, and going before his seat, greeted the king. Olaf looked at him and said:
“Are you Grettir the Strong?”
He answered: “That is my name, and I have come hither, kinsman, to get a fair hearing, and to clear myself of the charge of having burned men maliciously. Of that I am guiltless.”
King Olaf replied: “I heartily trust that what you say is true, and that you will be able to rid yourself of a charge so bad.”
Grettir replied that he was ready to do whatsoever the king desired, in order to prove his innocence.
Then said the king to him, “Tell me the whole story, that I may be able to judge.”
Grettir answered by relating the circumstances. He had simply taken fire from the hearth, when he was fallen upon by those who were drinking, and who were too tipsy to understand his explanation. He went away with the red-hot embers, and did not set fire to anything, but the drunken men kicked the glowing coals about amidst the straw.
The king remained silent some moments, and then he said: “There are no witnesses either on your behalf or against you. No man was by who is not dead. God and his angels alone know whether you speak the truth or not, therefore I must refer you to the judgment of God.”
“What must I do?” asked Grettir.
“You will have to go through the ordeal of fire,” said the king.
“What is that?” asked the young man.
“You must lift bars of red-hot iron, and walk with bare feet on ploughshares heated red in a furnace.”
“And what if I am burnt?”
“Then will you be adjudged guilty.”
Grettir shrugged his shoulders: “If it must be so, let it be at once; but whether I be burnt or not, I declare that I am clear of all intent to hurt those men.”
“You cannot undergo the ordeal now,” said the king. “You would be burned to a certainty. You must go through preparation first.”
“What preparation?”
“A week of fasting and prayer,” was the reply.
Then Grettir was taken away and put in ward, and fed with bread and water for a week, and the bishop visited him and taught him to pray that if he were innocent, God would reveal his innocence by enabling him to pass unscathed through the ordeal.
The day came, and Drontheim was thronged with people from all the country round, to see the Icelander of whom such tales were told. A procession was formed; first went the king’s body-guard followed by the king himself, wearing his crown, then came the bishop, the choir, and the clergy, and last of all Grettir, his wild red hair flying loose in the breeze, his arms folded, and his eyes wandering over the sea of heads that filled the square before the cathedral doors. The crowd pressed in closer and closer. Opinions differed as to whether he were guilty or not. Among the mob was a young man of dark complexion, who made a great noise, shouldering his way to the front, and shouting.
“Look at the fellow!” he exclaimed. “This is the man who, in cold blood, burnt down a house over helpless men, and now he is to be given u chance of escape.”
“But he says he is guiltless,” argued one in the crowd.
“Guiltless!” exclaimed the youth. “If one of us had done the deed, should we have been trifled with? The king wants him for his body-guard, because he is so strong.”
“He should be given a chance of clearing himself,” said one who stood near.
“Yes—of course—because he is a kinsman of the king. So the irons have been painted red, to look as if hot. I know how the trick is done. But he shall not escape me.”
Thereupon the young man sprang at Grettir and drove his nails into his face so that they drew blood; at the same time he poured forth against him a stream of insulting names.
This was more than the Icelander could bear; he caught the young man, as a cat catches a mouse, held him aloft, shook him, and then threw him away, when he fell on the ground and was stunned. It was feared he might be killed. This act gave occasion to a general uproar; the mob wanted to lay hands on Grettir; some threw stones, others assaulted him with sticks; but he, planting his back against the church wall, turned up his sleeves, guarded off the blows, shouting to his assailants to come on. Not a man came within his reach but was sent reeling back or was felled to the ground. In the meantime the king and the bishop were in the choir waiting. The red-hot ploughshares which had been laid on the pavement were gradually cooling, but no Grettir appeared.
At last the sounds of the uproar reached the king’s ear, and he sent out to know the occasion. His messenger returned a moment after to report that the Icelander was fighting the whole town and had knocked down and well nigh killed several persons. The king thereupon sprang from his throne, hastened down the nave, and came out of the great western door when the conflict was at its height.
“Oh, sire,” exclaimed Grettir, “see how I can fight the rascals!” and at the word he knocked a man over at the king’s feet.
With difficulty the tumult was arrested, and Grettir separated from the combatants; and then he wanted to go with the king and try the ordeal of fire.
“Not so,” answered Olaf, “you have already incurred sin. It is possible that some of those you have knocked down may never recover, so that their blood will lie at your door.”
“What is to be done?” asked Grettir.
The king considered.
“I see you are a very wicked or at all events a very unlucky man. When you were here before you were the occasion of several deaths. I do not desire to keep you in Norway, but as winter has set in you may tarry here till next spring, and then you shall be outlawed and return to Iceland.”